Raven Rise

PREFACE

The penultimate Pendragon.

Has a nice ring to it, no? In case you don’t know what penultimate means, find a dictionary and look it up. Right now. Go. I’m serious. The book will still be here when you get back. Promise.

For those of you who already know what it means, bravo!

For those of you who actually ran off and looked it up, well done.

For those of you slackers who didn’t know and didn’t look it up either (cough lazy cough) I’ll just tell you.

Penultimate: Second to last in a series or sequence.

Yup. This is it. The second to last chapter in the story of Bobby Pendragon and the Travelers. It’s hard to believe. When I began writing The Merchant of Death so long ago, reaching the end of the story seemed like a distant, unattainable goal. Now we are on the verge of bringing it all to a close. I can actually see light at the end of the tunnel. Of course the tunnel happens to be a flume and the light is a force that was sent from the far reaches of Halla to come grab hold and launch us on the next-to-final leg of our journey.

So we may be close, but we’re not done just yet.

You may think that getting a Pendragon book on the shelf is all about me. It isn’t. Not even close. As always, I’d like to write a few words of thanks to those who have helped give life to the Pendragon saga. Many have been there from the very beginning. Some are new to the adventure. All have been instrumental in bringing this story to you.

All my friends at Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing have continued to be great supporters. My sincere gratitude goes out to Rick Richter, Rubin Pfeffer, Justin Chanda, Ellen Krieger, Paul Crichton, and so many more wonderful, talented people in marketing, promotion, and sales. I thank you all.

There’s a new editor in town. Liesa Abrams. She has taken hold of the Pendragon reins with such joy and enthusiasm that I’m confident the story will be in very good hands until the last chapter of the final book is written. Thank you, Liesa.

A special note of thanks goes to Matt Schwartz, who is principally responsible for dusting off the cobwebs and spiffing up the Pendragon website. Great job, Matt.

We have a new cover designer and artist. They are Lucy Cummins and Dawn Austin. When I first saw their vision for Raven Rise, my jaw dropped. In a good way. I think it perfectly captures the next step in the evolution of Bobby’s story and character. Very cool, guys.

Heidi Hellmich, ace copyeditor, has once again done a masterful job of correcting my improper English. Heidi has used her laserlike green pencil on every word of every book from the very beginning. If she gets hit by a bus before #10 is complete, we’ll all be in trouble. Thanks so much, Heidi. Please be sure to always look both ways before crossing the street.

My good friend Richard Curtis has, as always, provided the kind of wisdom and sage guidance that allows me to muddle through the task of disassembling the universe without having to concern myself too much with real life. Thank you, Richard.

Peter Nelson has always been a great friend. He and Mark Wetzstein defy logic by being terrific lawyers while simultaneously being great guys. Incredible. I guess anything is possible in Halla.

Thank you again to Danny Baror, who continues to work to spread the Pendragon saga throughout the world. Also to Eileen Hutton, the talented Bill Dufris, and all the folks at Brilliance Audio who produce the awesome Pendragon audio books. And I owe a debt of gratitude to all the foreign language publishers of the Pendragon journals. I love seeing all the different versions of the books on my bookshelf. Of course I can’t read a single one of them, but the covers sure do look great!

One of my favorite experiences when writing a Pendragon book is handing over the pages I’d written that day to my wife, Evangeline. She’s the first critic to get a crack at the story and her insight is invaluable. She points out things that don’t make sense or that feel wrong or are just plain bad. The first thing I do the next day is fine-tune the previous day’s writing based on her thoughts. It’s a great system. Though I have to admit my favorite comment I get from her is when she finishes the pages, drops them, looks at me, and says: I want more. That’s when I know I did something right. Thanks, babe.

I still haven’t introduced my daughter, Keaton, to Bobby Pendragon. After all, she’s only four and a half. She’s way more interested in princesses and magic. Every night she asks me to make up a story for her, starring her. Usually it’s about a princess. Or magic. Duh. But a while back she said: Daddy, tell me a scary story. I raised an eyebrow in surprise and said, Really? You sure? She nodded. Okay. I shrugged and proceeded to make up a story that I think freaked her out so much that she’s going to need serious therapy some time down the road. Oops. The story wasn’t even that intense but for a minute I was afraid I had warped her for life. That is until shortly after when she started telling me her own stories that had to do with monsters and running around in dark caves and yellow snakes that disguise themselves as spaghetti. That’s my girl. Just like her old man. I’ll be writing scary stories for her for a long time to come…and enjoying hers. What a team!

I’m deeply grateful to all the booksellers, librarians, teachers, and parents who have recommended my books. There are a lot of great books to choose from and I’m honored that so many have chosen mine as one that is worthy of bringing to their young readers. Thanks!

Of course Pendragon wouldn’t be Pendragon without you, my friends. To those of you who have been there since the beginning, a special thanks for sticking around to see how it will all come out. To everyone who has written to me, thanks for your thoughts, comments, and questions. It’s a great feeling to know that my story has such an impact on you. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. Or maybe I can. I appreciate it. A lot. There.

I think that about covers it, right? No? Oh, right. This is supposed to be about Raven Rise, isn’t it? Almost forgot. Now where were we? Oh yeah…

Convergence.

You could look that one up in the dictionary too but I’ll do it myself and save you the trouble. (Cough still lazy cough)

Convergence: a coming together from different directions, especially a uniting or merging of groups or tendencies that were originally opposed or very different.

When we were last with Bobby, he made an incredible sacrifice that he thought would end the war with Saint Dane for good. He destroyed the entrance to the flume on Ibara, trapping himself and the demon on that territory. Though he knew the bold move meant he would never see his friends or his home again, he felt it was necessary because he was putting an end to Saint Dane’s evil quest. There was only one problem.

The Convergence had already begun.

The war wasn’t over. The story didn’t end there. Not for Bobby. Not for Saint Dane.

And not for us.

Did you seriously think it would be any other way?

Like I said, we’re not done yet.

This is the penultimate Pendragon.

Hobey ho, let’s go.

—D. J. MacHale

PENDRAGON

JOURNAL OF AN ADVENTURE THROUGH TIME AND SPACE

Book Nine:

Raven Rise

DENDURON

Ibara!

The tunnel remained silent. The only sign of life was the hollow sound of the command as it echoed through the dark void.

Ibara! the tall knight cried again, louder, as if that might make a difference. He knew it wouldn’t. The tunnel to infinity ignored his plea. He hadn’t expected this, though he’d feared something was wrong long before the flume went deaf. It struck him the last time he’d spoken with Bobby Pendragon.

Alder, the Traveler from Denduron, stood alone in the mouth of the flume on the territory of Quillan, wondering what had happened. Why wasn’t the flume working? What had his friend done? When Alder left Pendragon on Ibara, he sensed that the lead Traveler was keeping something from him. Pendragon had a plan. Pendragon always had a plan. For some reason he hadn’t wanted to share it. Alder sensed it at the time, but didn’t question. Now he wished he had. He knew in his heart that Bobby Pendragon had done something to prevent him from returning to Ibara. But why? Only Pendragon had that answer, and Pendragon was on Ibara. Isolated. Unreachable.

What have you done, my friend? Alder muttered to no one.

The knight felt as if there was only one thing he could do. Go home. That’s where Pendragon would look for him when he was needed. If he was needed.

Denduron! Alder shouted into the tunnel. He held his breath, fearful that the flume would continue to ignore his commands and leave him stranded on an alien territory.

It didn’t. The flume growled to life. The tunnel began to writhe like a monstrous snake working out the kinks after a long nap. Alder heard the comforting sound of the rocks cracking and grinding against one another. The flume still worked. It was only the route to Ibara that was closed. A pin spot of light appeared in the distance, transforming the dull gray rocks into clear crystal as it came to sweep him up for his journey home. Alder braced himself. The light grew bright. The jumble of musical notes that always accompanied a Traveler’s journey grew louder. Alder felt the gentle tug of energy that would pull him in and send him on his way.

He had come to Quillan on a simple mission: to return four weapons to their original territory. They were six-foot-long metal rods. Dado killers. Bobby didn’t want them on Ibara. He wanted to purge that territory of all technology from other territories. Alder got the weapons back with no problem.

If somebody asked him why he’d changed his mind at that moment, he wouldn’t know how to answer. Maybe it was the instinct of a warrior. Maybe it was the fear of the unknown. Maybe it was confusion over the fact that once again things weren’t happening the way he expected them to. Maybe it was all of the above. No matter. The instant before he was swept into the flume, Alder had bent down and grabbed back the four dado-killing weapons. He wanted them on Denduron. Just in case.

A moment later he was on his way.

As he traveled through the flume he gazed out of the crystal tunnel to the star field beyond. The ghostly images of Halla that had been appearing in space had become so dense it was difficult to make out any single one. Alder caught glimpses of screaming rockets, marching armies, and crumbling buildings. Enormous toothy sharks soared through a pack of vicious snarling animals that were imposed over massive, sand-swept pyramids. Alder didn’t recognize or understand most of the stunning images. He was a simple knight from a small farming village. But he understood chaos. Seeing the spectacular fury of these impressions in space made him fear that in spite of their many victories, the Travelers’ battle to save Halla was not over. Not even close.

They had taken a bold chance on Ibara. They knew that mingling the territories went against the laws of what was meant to be, but they saw no other way to save Ibara. Saint Dane had amassed an enormous army of dados from Quillan to attack the village of Rayne. Without the help of the Travelers, it would have been a slaughter. Ibara would have been crushed and any hope of salvaging Veelox would have been destroyed along with it. Pendragon and the Travelers chose to take a stand. There was no weapon or resource that existed on Ibara that could have stopped Saint Dane’s army. For that they looked to Denduron. Alder’s home.

They called it tak. It was a reddish, claylike mineral found deep underground. It was deadly. It was explosive. Pendragon, Alder, and the Traveler from Ibara, named Siry, unearthed enough of the volatile material to use as a weapon against the dados. The result was as effective as it was frightening. The army of dados was obliterated along with most of the village of Rayne. Still, the Travelers had won. Ibara was saved. Saint Dane had been turned back once again. Pendragon and the Travelers felt certain the decision to use tak was the right one, for Saint Dane’s quest to control Halla had been crushed.

Yet the images in space remained. Halla was still in turmoil. Seeing the chaotic images among the stars made Alder wonder if they had done the right thing after all. Did they truly win on Ibara? If so, how steep was the price? He tried to force those dark thoughts from his head. Alder took pride in being a problem solver. Worrying didn’t solve problems. He knew he had to move on and be ready to do battle if the time came again. When the time came again. It was what he did best. He turned his thoughts toward home. Denduron. It was the first territory where Pendragon and the Travelers had battled Saint Dane. It was their first victory. After the horror of the war on Ibara, he looked forward to returning to the now peaceful territory.

The sweet musical notes grew louder, warning him that he was almost home. He twisted himself upright as he flew on the warm cushion of air, ready to be deposited at the gate on Denduron. Alder smiled. He needed a rest and hoped that his duties as a Bedoowan knight would allow for a little downtime.

It was at that moment that he caught one last image floating in the sea of space. It was a fleeting image of a large group of dark-skinned men holding up spears, waving them angrily. The image caught his eye because it was familiar. The men were tall and thin. Each one was as bald as the next. They wore thick leather armor that was distinctly purple. Alder recognized them. They were a primitive tribe that lived on the far side of the mountain from where his village lay on Denduron. They were a peaceful people. Seeing them waving spears, wearing armor, and chanting angrily was disturbing. What could it mean? The image was gone as quickly as he registered it, swallowed up by the vision of a silver dygo machine from Zadaa. In Alder’s mind, the image of the angry armed tribe remained. He knew it wasn’t a good omen.

Seconds later Alder was standing in the familiar cave that was the gate to the flume on Denduron. His teeth began to chatter. He was freezing. No big surprise. The gate on Denduron was near the peak of a snowy mountain, and Alder still wore the lightweight, tropical clothing from Ibara. He quickly dropped the dado rods and changed into the warm, leather uniform of a Bedoowan knight. It felt good to be home. At the mouth of the cave was the small sled he would ride down the snow-covered mountain to his village below. He pulled the vehicle out of the cave and onto the snow, squinting against the bright light from the three suns of Denduron. He waited a few seconds to let his eyes adjust. He filled his lungs with cold air. It felt good. Ibara was much too warm for his taste. After a few blissful seconds his eyes adjusted enough for him to make out detail.

He wished they hadn’t. What he saw made his blood run cold, and it had nothing to do with the temperature. A field of untracked snow spread out before him. Jutting from the snow were several yellow spikes. They looked like gnarly, pointed rocks that were thick at the base and came to sharp points. Alder knew they weren’t rocks.

No, he gasped.

The quigs were back, lying beneath the snow, guarding the flumes. The rocky points were spikes that ran along their spines. Alder wasn’t afraid of dealing with a quig-bear. He had battled them before. What terrified him was that they were there at all. Quigs existed on territories where Saint Dane was active. On Denduron the Travelers had beaten the demon, and the quigs had not been seen since.

Until then.

Alder didn’t stop to wonder what it might mean. He wanted to be out of there. Without a moment more of hesitation, he picked up his sled and dashed across the snow. He picked a route that was clear of quig spines, threw the sled down, and jumped aboard. Belly down. Head first. The small sled was primitive, but fast. It was made from carved wood, with slick runners that slipped across the snow like skis. In no time he was gathering speed, heading down the steep field of snow. He risked a quick glance back to see if he had disturbed any quigs. None of them moved. It was small consolation. Why had they come back? What was happening on Denduron?

Alder negotiated the snow field expertly, flying down the mountainside while steering past towering boulders of ice. The lower he dropped, the more patchy the snow became. He was soon skirting stretches of dirt and grass. He stayed on the snow as long as possible before his runners scraped rock, forcing him to give up his ride. He sat up and dug his feet in to stop, climbed off the sled, and stood to look down the mountain toward the village below.

What he saw made him fall to his knees. He couldn’t help himself. It was as if his legs had turned to rubber. Down below, on the vast grassy field that stretched between the Milago village and the seaside ruins of the Bedoowan castle, Alder saw an army of Bedoowan knights, dressed in full armor, lined up in tight formation.

Battle formation.

The Bedoowan knights were preparing for war.

The territory had changed.

What has happened? he gasped to nobody.

As much as he needed it, there would be no rest for the Traveler from Denduron.

He wanted Pendragon to be there. He needed Pendragon to be there. But Bobby Pendragon was still on the territory of Ibara.

Alone. Isolated.

Unreachable.

THIRD EARTH

Patrick Mac knew something was wrong.

He knew it before he opened his eyes on that May morning in the Earth year of 5014. It was the smell. He couldn’t place it, mostly because he had rarely smelled anything like it before. It seemed to him like a mixture of foul chemicals and rotted garbage—two smells that weren’t often present on clean, green Third Earth. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good. It wasn’t natural. He opened his eyes to scan the bedroom of his small apartment. Nothing seemed out of place, other than the alien odor.

Patrick lived in the underground village of New York City known as Chelsea. It was the first subterranean complex built below Manhattan and served as a model for the others that had transformed the surface of New York from a crowded, environmental disaster area into a beautiful parklike community. Chelsea was made up of fifty levels of apartments, shops, museums, theaters, and just about every convenience needed to live belowground. There was even a large lake at its bottom level that was open most of the year for swimming and sailing. From November through January it was intentionally frozen for skating and ice hockey. Many thousands of people made their homes in the small community. Most of them worked there too. There was no reason to ever venture aboveground, unless you wanted to enjoy the beautiful, open countryside and feel the warmth of the sun.

Patrick thought that everything about Chelsea was perfect, except of course for this strange new smell that had so rudely forced him awake. He rolled out of bed, every sense on alert. Was he in danger? Was there a fire? No. It didn’t smell like that. He had received no warning through the communication system that ran throughout the underground village. If there was an emergency, people were notified immediately. Patrick had lived in Chelsea for most of his thirty years. He had only experienced one emergency. A water pipe had burst on the fifteenth level near his apartment. Everyone within three sectors was evacuated in minutes. The pipe was repaired and he returned home within the hour. Chelsea was an efficient place. If there were any real danger, Patrick felt certain he would know about it.

But what was the foul smell?

It was a Tuesday. Patrick had to be at work by eight. He was a teacher and the librarian at Chelsea High, five levels down from his apartment. He could make it from dead asleep to his classroom in fifteen minutes. Ten if he pushed. It was early. He didn’t need to push. He needed to find out what the putrid smell was. He sat up in bed, took a good whiff, and hacked out a cough. The smell tickled the back of his throat. He ran his hands through his long brown hair and scowled. The odd smell gave him a bad feeling that went beyond the throat tickle.

Patrick was the Traveler from Third Earth. He had already experienced the shock of seeing his territory change once; he didn’t want to go through it again. Events in the past had been altered, creating a ripple of events through time that led to the creation of a race of humanlike automatons called dados. One day all was normal; the next day Patrick woke to find these robots were suddenly part of the normal fabric of Third Earth life. They functioned as efficient worker bees who served the people of the territory. The dados may have been handy, but they were wrong. It wasn’t the way things were meant to be. Bobby Pendragon and his acolyte Courtney Chetwynde went back in time to First Earth to try and prevent the events that would lead to their creation. Had they succeeded? Did this odd smell have something to do with the past having been changed yet again? Was this foul odor a good sign? It sure didn’t smell like it.

Hello? Patrick called out nervously.

He lived alone, but on the new Third Earth, he had a dado servant who made him breakfast and washed his clothes. Patrick thought it was creepy and cool at the same time. As much as the dados shouldn’t have existed, he had to admit that it was pretty nice to have a machine handle the more mundane chores around the apartment.

There was no answer. Were the dados no more?

Patrick decided to call his school to see if anybody knew what the strange smell was all about. He reached to his bedside table for his telemonitor, but his hand hung in the air. The device wasn’t there. Patrick quickly looked to the floor. Had he knocked it over in his sleep? No. It was just…gone. The hairs went up on the back of his neck. His pulse quickened. Something was definitely wrong.

It was then that he noticed a faint sound. It wasn’t distinct or specific enough for him to guess what it could be. It was more like a distant rumble of white noise. Harmless, except for the fact that the sound in Chelsea was totally controlled. Nothing as intrusive or annoying as white noise existed in his home, or anywhere else on Third Earth for that matter. The only place he’d heard anything remotely like it was on a recorded bit of history that was stored in the massive computer data files of 5014.

Patrick forced himself to stand up. He shuffled slowly toward his bedroom door, fearing what he might find on the other side. He reached for the silver-handled doorknob, grasped it tightly, took a breath, and pulled the door open to see…

It wasn’t his apartment. At least it wasn’t the apartment he used to have. There was nothing unusual or sinister about the place, other than the fact that it wasn’t his. The furniture was different. The paintings on the walls were different. The appliances in the kitchen were different. For a moment he wondered if he had accidentally entered the wrong apartment the night before, but quickly dismissed that as being idiotic. There was less chance of that happening than all of history being transformed by Pendragon and the other Travelers. That’s how strange the reality of his life had become.

Patrick fought panic. It wasn’t easy waking up to discover your life had been turned inside out. Again. Still, panic would only make things worse. He was an orderly guy. He knew what he had to do. He had to determine exactly what had changed. After that, he would contact Pendragon to let him know about the changes and find out what had happened in the past to cause them. Yes. That’s what he had to do. One step at a time. As long as he didn’t let his mind shoot forward to all the unknown possibilities, he’d be okay. At least that’s what he told himself. He was the Traveler from Third Earth, a territory that up until then had not been targeted by Saint Dane. He realized it might very well be his turn. Running and hiding in the closet might have been tempting, but it wouldn’t change things. It was time for him to step into the show.

On the outer wall of his living room were two large windows covered by white horizontal blinds. They weren’t much different from the windows he had in his normal apartment, except that his regular blinds were vertical. No big deal. Vertical? Horizontal? Who cared? If this was the worst he’d see, he figured he could handle it. Normally the windows looked out onto the center atrium of Chelsea. He had a balcony outside where he spent many an afternoon reading and enjoying the happy sounds of people splashing and playing in the warm waters of the lake far below. He desperately wanted to open those blinds and see the familiar sites of his underground home.

The alien sounds and smells told him not to get his hopes up.

He walked slowly toward the windows. His bare feet felt cold on the tiled floor. No big deal, except that Patrick normally had carpet. The white tiles beneath his feet were cracked and grimy. He wondered why the broken tiles hadn’t been replaced. Or cleaned. Had he become a lazy load on the new Third Earth? In some ways that was more disturbing than knowing the whole world had changed.

He stopped at the window, his nose inches from the closed blinds. He knew in his heart that when he opened them he would see a changed world. The question was, how changed would it be? He already knew that it smelled bad. Maybe that would be the only difference.

He didn’t believe that any more than he believed the vertical blinds would be the only change.

Patrick found the string that ran down the side of the window. He grasped it, ready to pull. He took a second to catch his breath. As much as things had already changed, he figured he could handle the differences he’d seen so far. He didn’t know if the same would be said after he’d seen what lay beyond. He savored the last few seconds of his old life. He knew that once he pulled those blinds, it would all begin. Or end.

He thought of letting go of the string, leaving the blinds closed, and contacting Pendragon to find out what had happened in the past. Yes. Good idea. It might help him prepare for what was out there. He looked at his hand as he was about to let go of the string. On his finger was his Traveler ring. He heard all the stories of what Pendragon had been through in the battle against Saint Dane. He knew the sacrifices the Travelers had to make. Many had died trying to stop the demon from controlling Halla. He knew that he had had a relatively easy time of it. He suddenly felt guilty and a little ashamed for being so uncertain. For being afraid. It was his turn now. It was time.

He pulled the string.

The blinds twisted open, revealing a sight that made Patrick stumble backward, as if being repulsed by the impossible vision before him. He screamed. He couldn’t help it. It just came out.

Staring back at him was an eye. A giant sideways eye. His brain couldn’t compute what he was seeing. Did giants now roam Earth? Or did he somehow pull an Alice in Wonderland and shrink to action-figure size? He couldn’t catch his breath. His heart raced. What was this giant going to do? Eat him? How did it get underground in the first place?

The eye didn’t move. It stared in at Patrick, unblinking. Patrick had to force himself to look back. His terror slowly gave way to confusion. The eye was green. Completely green. The white, the pupil, even the skin around it was the same dull green color. It took Patrick a few seconds to realize that it wasn’t a living creature and never had been. It was a sculpture. It was so immense that he couldn’t see it all, but it seemed to be a statue of a head lying on its side, staring in at him.

Patrick stood on shaky legs. Though he no longer feared being eaten by a gargantuan one-eyed monster, he was still left breathless at the idea that such an immense sculpture could be right outside his window in the atrium of Chelsea.

Unless…

A sickening thought hit. His mind had trouble accepting the idea, but it seemed like the only logical explanation. He knew how to find out for sure. He had to go outside. He had to face the face. It didn’t matter that he was still in bare feet and pajamas. He had to go outside because he couldn’t see it all through the windows. Patrick moved toward the front door. It was the portal that led out onto the balcony on the fifteenth level of the underground village of Chelsea beneath New York City in the year 5014. With every bit of courage he could conjure, Patrick reached for the doorknob and pulled. The white noise grew louder. The strange odor grew stronger. Being inside the apartment had kept the worst of it away. Patrick now understood why. He didn’t need his eyes to tell him what his nose and ears already understood.

He no longer lived underground. He was hearing sounds that he had only experienced before through the holographic images stored in the data drives of the computers in the library. He was smelling the smells of a city above the ground. A city that hadn’t solved the problems of pollution. Of housing. Of overpopulation. The scientific advances that the people of Earth had made in order to save their planet never happened. Patrick stood there stunned. This was the new Earth of 5014. He had only caught a small glimpse, but he knew what he would find. No, he feared what he would find. He would have to explore this city. He would have to try and figure out what went wrong. What had changed. What Saint Dane had done to win Third Earth without ever having set foot on the territory.

A foul wind blew down the street, ruffling his hair and kicking up a cloud of filthy papers that swirled around him. He was standing on a fourth-floor balcony on the surface of a city that had been transformed. He understood that the foul odor wasn’t anything unusual in this new environment. It was simply what the city smelled like. Same with the white noise—this was the new, normal sound of the city. The tranquility was gone. The faint citrus aroma was gone. The grassy meadows were gone. The sky was gray. Was it cloudy? Or something more sinister? Maybe that looming gray ceiling was what he was sucking into his lungs as it tickled the back of his throat.

Almost nothing was familiar. Almost. Patrick could have convinced himself that he had been transported to an alien city anywhere in Halla, except for an undeniable reality that was staring him right in the face. It was the green sculpture. Now that he was outside he saw it for what it really was. He saw that he’d been right—the eye was actually sideways and the face was on its side. The sculpture was so huge that the uppermost eye was on the level of his fourth-floor balcony. The rest of the statue stretched down the cracked pavement of the wide street in front of his new home. He was almost close enough to reach out and touch its nose. He saw through the dull green patina that there were signs of rust and corrosion spread over its surface. This sculpture was made of metal.

Patrick was in shock. Maybe that was a good thing. If not, he surely would have crumbled under the weight of the reality he was faced with. Literally. He was having trouble breathing. He wasn’t sure if that was due to the foul air, or because the sight in front of him had taken his breath away. He felt weak. He had to lean against the building or he would have fallen down.

He tried to swallow. He couldn’t. His mouth was too dry.

So? he croaked hoarsely at the lifeless statue. What happened?

The statue didn’t answer, of course. It wasn’t alive. It had never been alive, though it could not have looked more dead. As much as Patrick wanted to deny it, he was definitely in a new New York City, staring into the eye of the Statue of Liberty.

FIRST EARTH

"You must realize this enterprise will make you and your partner quite wealthy," the tall man with the large teeth said with a knowing smile.

"Andy Mitchell is not my partner," Mark Dimond shot back quickly. He wanted to leap out of the cushy leather chair and shake the guy to emphasize the point. He actually leaned forward, ready to pounce, but a strong hand held him back.

Easy there, big fella, Courtney Chetwynde said soothingly. For a change Courtney was the voice of reason, while Mark was the voice of butt kicking. He gets it.

I am afraid I do not ‘get it’ at all, the man corrected, lifting the corner of one lip. Mark wasn’t sure if it was a half smile, or a full sneer, or if he had just smelled something foul. The man held up a piece of paper that, unfortunately, Mark recognized. This is your signature, is it not?

Mark dropped back in his chair. Beaten.

Yeah.

Then whatever unpleasantness has transpired between you and Mr. Mitchell is immaterial. You both signed this contract, therefore you are forever joined together as principals in the… He looked at the paper through half-glasses. What is it you call yourselves? Ah yes, the Dimond Alpha Digital Organization. He looked up at Mark over the paper and continued, I have no idea what that signifies, nor do I care. What I do know is that between having signed this letter of intent and receiving our advance payment, your company has given Keaton Electrical Marvels the sole right to develop the technology you have created and named ‘Forge.’

Mark wanted to scream, but he knew it wouldn’t do anything more than make him look silly. He and Courtney were in the large London office of Mr. Iain Paterson, president of KEM Limited. The company that was going to bring about the ruin of Halla. Of course, Mr. Paterson had no idea of that. As far as he knew, all he had done was license an impossible new technology from two teenage American kids that he hoped would revolutionize the electronics industry. He had no way of knowing that one of those kids was actually a demon who had manipulated Mark into igniting an explosion of technology that would change the future of Earth, Quillan, and Ibara. It was not the way things were meant to be. But Mr. Paterson couldn’t know that. Mark wished that somehow he could explain it to him. Maybe then he’d destroy Forge. More likely, Mark thought, he’d have him sent to an asylum for the impossibly strange.

I must admit, I do not understand your position, Paterson continued. Mark thought the guy was pretty arrogant. He wore a dark tweed suit with a vest that had a gold watch chain dangling from the right pocket. He held his head high and pointed his chin at whoever he was speaking to. Why the sudden reluctance? Don’t you relish the opportunity to change the future of the world?

Mark shot Courtney a glance. Paterson had no idea how true those words were.

Or four worlds, Mark muttered.

Pardon me?

Look…Iain…pal, Courtney interjected. Paterson visibly stiffened. He wasn’t used to having a young girl treat him so informally. If you develop Mark’s technology, he’ll sue you. Simple as that. Do you really want to go through all that? Hmm?

Paterson snickered. It was Courtney’s turn to stiffen. Snickering irked Courtney, especially if it was at her expense.

It is most unfortunate that Mr. Dimond feels that way, but rest assured we are confidant in our legal position. A letter of intent was signed. Monies have changed hands.

We’ll give you back the money! Mark exclaimed.

Paterson snickered. Again. Courtney stiffened. Again.

We don’t want your money, he said flatly. We want Forge.

Mark took a desperate gamble and said, Well, too bad. You have the plans, but I’m the one who made it. I destroyed the prototype, and I don’t think you can duplicate it. You don’t have the know-how. Mark looked at Courtney with renewed hope. It’s true, he exclaimed to her. They won’t figure out how to build it!

Another snicker from Paterson.

Stop that! Courtney demanded.

Please, come with me, Paterson commanded as he got up from behind his immense mahogany desk. He strode quickly across the stuffy office, opened the heavy wooden door, and gestured for Mark and Courtney to follow.

Courtney whispered to Mark, Why do I think we’re not going to like this?

They both got up and followed Paterson along the wide hallway of the headquarters of KEM Limited. Along either side of the corridor were glass cases filled with odd-looking devices that were on display as if in a museum.

These are some of the projects we’re developing here at KEM, Paterson explained.

One case held a series of six colorful cups.

Plastic, Paterson explained. Durable, lightweight, inexpensive. Someday the majority of simple, everyday items will be molded out of plastic. Incredible, no?

Mark and Courtney exchanged looks. They continued on until they saw a case that contained a round glass screen that looked like an ancient TV set. On the screen was an animated character that looked to Mark like a black-and-white version of Bugs Bunny.

Paterson commented, Someday moving images will be broadcast into homes the way radio is today.

Courtney sniffed. Not exactly plasma quality.

Plasma? Paterson asked, intrigued.

Mark winced. He feared that Courtney had just given Paterson another idea that was way ahead of 1937. He changed the subject by asking, What’s that?

In the next case was a small machine that looked like a tiny, old-fashioned record player complete with a small black three-inch vinyl record.

Paterson explained, We feel that miniaturization will be key in developing future technologies. This small phonograph can be easily packed into a suitcase and transported anywhere. In the future, entertainment will no longer be restricted to the home or theater.

Courtney laughed. Nice. Put that thing on a chain around your neck, and you could run with it.

Why on earth would anyone want to listen to music while running? Paterson asked, again intrigued.

What do you want to show us? Mark interrupted, changing the subject again.

You have theorized that we would be unable to read your schematics and duplicate your work. Observe.

Paterson pointed to the next case in line. What Mark and Courtney saw inside made them deflate. Lined up on a purple velvet pillow were six small items that looked like identical blue eggs.

Are those what I think they are? Mark asked, though he was pretty sure he already knew.

Try it for yourself, Paterson answered.

Mark called out in a clear voice, Square.

Instantly all six eggs writhed and morphed into six perfect squares. There was no mistake. It was Forge. Six times over. The people at KEM had succeeded in re-creating Mark’s prototype, proving they had the know-how.

The early dados had been born.

You see, young sir, Paterson said, proud of himself, we are quite capable of reading and duplicating your plans. My suggestion to you is sit back and enjoy the spoils of your incredible invention. You are the father of a technology that will revolutionize our lives. You should be proud.

Mark felt a lot of things. Fear, anger, embarrassment, frustration, confusion, and above all, nausea. There was a lot of nausea going on. Nowhere on that list was the feeling of pride.

Mark and Courtney left Mr. Paterson and took the lift (as they called the elevators in London) down to the lobby of the small office building. Waiting for them when they stepped off were Mark’s parents and Douglas Dodger Curtis, the feisty bellhop from the Manhattan Tower Hotel in New York City who had helped Courtney track down Mark. Dodger had become their guide to the territory, helping the aliens from Second Earth maneuver through the strange world of 1937.

Well? Dodger asked enthusiastically as soon as he saw Mark and Courtney.

The look on Mark’s and Courtney’s faces was all the answer they needed.

I shouldn’t be surprised, Mark said, defeated. We knew destroying the prototype didn’t change anything. It was dumb to think we could have talked them out of developing Forge. I’ve been doing a lot of dumb things lately.

Stop, Mrs. Dimond said. You couldn’t have known any of this would happen.

I got played, Mom, Mark shot back. I did everything Saint Dane wanted.

And it backfired on him, Mr. Dimond added. The Travelers beat his army on Ibara, and now he’s trapped there.

Yeah, Mark said, sounding even more depressed. Along with Bobby.

The group fell silent.

So what do we do now? Courtney asked.

Nobody was sure of what to say, until Mark finally spoke. I think we go home. Back to New York. That’s where the flume is.

Dodger offered, "The Queen Mary sails back in a couple days. I can book us return passage if I get a move on."

Can’t we just fly? Courtney asked.

How? Dodger countered. You got wings?

Mr. Dimond observed, I don’t think there’s regular air service across the Atlantic in 1937.

You mean people fly across the ocean on Second Earth? Dodger asked. Like taking the train?

Yeah, Courtney said. You get free pretzels, too.

Dodger whistled. Courtney wasn’t sure if he was impressed by the idea of regular air service or free snacks.

Do it, Mark said confidently. We should get back.

I’m on it, Dodger declared, headed for the door. Meet you all back at the hotel. The little bellhop tipped his hat and was gone.

We’re all tired, Mrs. Dimond declared, always the mother hen. We should get some rest.

You guys go, Mark said. I want to walk a little.

I’m coming with you, Courtney declared.

A few minutes later Mark and Courtney were strolling along the southern border of Hyde Park, the massive expanse of green grass in central London. They looked like any other couple from 1937. Mark wore a dark gray suit with a fedora cap and a wool overcoat to ward off the November chill. Courtney wore a dress and a cream-colored overcoat. She even wore high heels and stockings. To her it was a costume for their meeting with Paterson. She didn’t think a stiff British businessman would take her seriously if she wore the pants and floppy wool hat she’d bought at Macy’s in New York. Turned out it didn’t matter.

The two had grown up since their adventure began when Bobby Pendragon left home to travel through the territories. They were now both seventeen…and felt around a hundred. They walked together along the sidewalk, their minds a million miles away from their bodies. For the longest time neither said a word. They walked past Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey, and on to the Houses of Parliament, where the famous Clock Tower with the bell known as Big Ben rose into the sky. Both stopped to look up at the immense tower in awe.

Wow, Courtney declared. "I had no idea. They should call it ‘Really Big Ben.’"

They continued along the river Thames until they reached Westminster Bridge. But their walk wasn’t about sightseeing—it was about taking time to think. Finally, on their way back toward Hyde Park, Courtney broke the ice.

You know, maybe it’s a good thing we couldn’t stop KEM, she offered. At least now we know how things are going to play out. Technology on Earth is going to change. The dados are going to be created, but Bobby is going to beat them on Ibara. That’s all good, right? Who knows what might have happened if we’d stopped Paterson and his KEM geeks? We might have started a whole nother chain of events and Saint Dane might still be in business.

And Bobby might not be trapped on Ibara with him, Mark muttered.

Yeah, that, Courtney whispered softly. "But it was his choice, Mark. He ended the war. Halla is safe from Saint Dane.